He's a Hunter

[desperance]

Cats do famously like to fetch their kills home, laying out little corpses on the landing for their humans to admire. Something like bringing in the shopping, I guess, and/or offering little gifts to secure a relationship.

Barry's no different, except that he doesn't currently have access to little corpses, so he rummages. This is a good house for rummaging, many unregarded corners and much loose aggregation of clutter that a cat can dig around in.

He finds small soft things, and leaves them here and there in the hall/stairs/landings matrix (again a good house, many stairs, many landings: only two bedrooms, mind, but the layout's a bit eccentric). Often it's socks, I never knew there were so many strays; this morning it's a triumph, he's slaughtered a crocodile. Just a baby one, perhaps the length of my forearm, and fortunately a cuddly one, not the kind that comes with scales and entrails and teeth. I wish I'd seen him with it; that's the trouble with a companion whose sleep is out of phase with your own, half their fun-time is your down-time. I was wondering just the other day, where he is at night, because he's generally not with me; now I know, he's off adventuring in other realms, and fetching his trophies home. This one is pre-stuffed; now all we need is a mounting.

Comments

[bookzombie.livejournal.com]

How sweet!

When he was a kitten, Bob used to love picking up drinks coasters off of the coffee table and wandering around the house with them in his mouth.

And then there is my mum's cat, gizmo. When mum still had a garden he used to pick flowers, bring them in and give them to mum!

[desperance.livejournal.com]

Fetching flowers to his human? How degraded...

Except it's not, of course, that's another human (mis)interpretation. In fact it's entirely parallel to the traditional little line-up of eviscerated rodents: living things that he has boldly slaughtered and fetched home to parade in tribute or in triumph, however you like to see it. See me, I am a mighty hunter...

[bookzombie.livejournal.com]

The late Benji used to be the Mighty Hunter of the household. Josie shows absolutely no interest at all and Willow will just make interested noises out of the window at birds but never converts that into action.

Snowy now seems to have taken Benji's old role - at peak season we can have two or three objects de mort (or something like that) per day.

Bob, we have recently concluded, is a fake Mighty Hunter. We think Snowy brings things in for him to play with (in the same way that your dad buys you miniature tool sets in the hope you will eventually get keen on DIY...). Our evidence is that the other day a limping mouse was on the garden path. Bob looked at it and batted at it a couple of times but then ignored it. Not exactly the killer instinct we expect! He even turned around and knocked the poor creature over with his tail...

[desperance.livejournal.com]

I'm sure they do fake it. My beloved Misha-cat came bouncing in one day with a dead bird, so wonderfully pleased with herself - and when I took it from her it was stone-cold, been dead half a day at least, which meant that however it met its death it was not at the paws of little Artemisia.

And I did have a mouse in the house, briefly, between Misha's leaving and Barry's arrival; and shortly after he came it did turn up dead on the carpet, but there wasn't a mark on it. Maybe he frightened it to death, but I have my suspicions; I don't think he had anything to do with it, I think it just died. Maybe he batted it about a bit afterwards, to put it so conspicuously out where I'd be walking, but he forgot to batter it convincingly bloody.

On the other hand, every time a dog goes past the window, Barry is there, bristling and eager, let-me-at-it! Which is almost the definition of a fake, eyes larger than his stomach, boastful and hollow...

[fjm.livejournal.com]

Hubble liked freshly laundered socks rolled into a ball. He would throw them over his shoulder repeatedly. But they had to be fresh, and they had to be rolled.

[desperance.livejournal.com]

Yup. Barry's first adventure into sockdom in this house consisted of his digging up - Lord knows where - two socks balled together. I do not ball socks together, however practical the idea is, and I do not recognise these socks. The appeal to Barry is fairly obvious, as the object - considered as an object - is clean and kind of rat-sized, rat-shaped (with one floppy foot as a tail) and very much fit for purpose, which is to be played with, borne about, displayed, deposited in new and interesting places. All of that, it's an ongoing adventure. I'm still fairly sure that it came from outer space (that being defined as anywhere beyond this house & yard, where Barry Does Not Go, at least not while Chaz is watching). I think he has a secret interdimensional doorway in his head. There's probably room for one, in among the few stray thoughts. "See Chaz. Purr. Attack!"

[devonellington.livejournal.com]

Elsa taught the twins to play fetch with toy mice -- they bring the mice, demand you throw it, run and bring it back. Elsa also rummanges and carries around socks, sweaters, etc.

Of course, there have been occassions when they found REAL mice, still wriggling, and brought them to me to toss!

I scramble onto the highest surface, saying, "Good kitty, good girl, you brought dinner. Now get that thing AWAY from me!"

They are thoroughly disgusted.

Felicia (now deceased), once bothered me because she didn't like the food I put down, so I said to her, "Well, then, why don't YOU go out and get us some dinner?"

She found a mouse, killed it, brought it triumphantly over -- and dropped it in my shoe.

The monologue, "Married" was born from that, and has done well both in WOMEN WITH AN EDGE and out on its own.

I never asked her to bring in the dinner again! She made her point.